John Dorsey: Hittin' the road

John Dorsey lived for several years in Toledo, Ohio. He is the author of several collections of poetry, including Teaching the Dead to Sing: The Outlaw's Prayer (Rose of Sharon Press, 2006), Sodomy is a City in New Jersey (American Mettle Books, 2010), Tombstone Factory (Epic Rites Press, 2013), Appalachian Frankenstein (GTK Press, 2015), Being the Fire (Tangerine Press, 2016) and Shoot the Messenger (Red Flag Press, 2017).  More recently he has published a limited-edition chapbook titled Dying like Dogs, published by Tangerine Press.  He is the current Poet Laureate of Belle, MO. His work has been nominated for the Pushcart Prize. He can be reached at archerevans@yahoo.com.

DH: When did you start writing poetry? When was your first collection published?

JD: I started writing very bad poetry about 30 years ago. My first collection, which contained much of that early work, was published in 1995 by Jesse Poet Publications, and was entitled When It's Over and Other Poems.

Who are your main influences and why?

My early influences were girls who were much cooler and more well read than I was. In terms of poets, though, I would have to say Ted Berrigan, Joe Brainard, Richard Hugo, Jack Spicer, Everette Maddox, Gregory Corso, Kell Robertson, Todd Moore, Scott Wannberg, DR Wagner, and Ann Menebroker. I admire them all for different reasons, but mainly because when I first read each of them they knocked the wind out of me with words and in the end helped me to find my own voice as a writer.

Do you consider yourself an outlaw poet?

While I have been called one of the youngest card-carrying members of that whole movement, I'd have to say no. I mean, I do write outside academia, that's true, but if I had my way everyone would be writing poetry, I love it that much, and I don't see what's so outlaw about that, all it requires is an open heart.

In addition to full, perfect-bound collections, you have also had a number of chapbooks published. Do you prefer chapbooks over perfect-bound books? Do you think chapbooks have limitations? Chapbooks are not taken seriously here in South Africa.

First, I love chapbooks as well and will keep doing both until the day I die. Nowadays, it seems like most of the younger poets here are just going straight to full-length collections and skipping the chapbook altogether.  For me, though, they were a proofing ground, they let me figure out who I was and who exactly I was writing for, besides myself, and build an audience. Also, because they can be cheaper to produce they allow the publishers to take chances, for the book itself to become a work of art, which in my opinion is a rare thing, and rarer still with perfect-bound books, many of which are made through a print-on-demand service now. So I really think they have less limitations than perfect-bound books, they are pretty fearless in this day and age.

Dying like Dogs has been published in a limited edition of 53 copies. Some people would feel such a small number is negligible and that a book or chapbook should at least be 120 copies. What are your thoughts on that? What do you feel is the value of limited editions?

I am a huge believer in limited-edition books for several reasons. First, there is the investment factor, the whole collector culture, limited editions create a sense of urgency, people say, I have to have that, and I'm a firm believer in making sure my publishers at least break even and these days, thankfully, they tend to do a little better than that. Let's be honest, a lot of the people who look down on limited editions couldn't sell 120 books to their grandmother, anyway. What's really important is that the books that are printed reach the right people, those who really connect with what the author has to say, whatever they happen to take away from the work. I always tell people when I read in public that if I truly reach one person each time, then I take that as a huge victory. Also, like I said above, there's the work of art factor and limited-edition books usually fall into that category.

You seem to go on the road a lot, doing readings around the US and selling books. In South Africa poetry sales are generally event-driven, rather than through bookstores. Is it the same in the US?

I do travel a lot, I generally give around 100 readings a year. Sales are generally event-driven here too, though I sell a lot online as well. I wish I sold better in bookstores, though my local store tends to sell out of my work.

What importance, if any, do you place on recognition and from who?

I don't know, I'm still surprised every day that people pick up my work at all. The nicest form of recognition I get is a random email or letter from someone telling me they picked up a book of mine and that they enjoyed it, that's better than all of the awards I'll never win.

Could you tell us something about your work as a playwright and screenwriter?

I went to college for screenwriting, and that's all I did for a while, and then poetry kind of took over my life again. Now I only do the screenwriting and the playwright thing whenever poems won't pop into my head. I've had two plays produced and just started a third, and as a screenwriter had a feature film shot last year by a friend's company that is being edited together as we speak. Also had a short film featuring my poetry made by filmmaker Carson Parish, am hoping that will be available to the public soon.

What projects are you currently busy with?

Well, a lot of my work is being reprinted right now by various publishers, including my reader Appalachian Frankenstein, which was originally published by GTK Press in 2015, and was recently put back into print by Outlandish Press. I also have a small split chapbook with Scot Young due shortly on Rusty Truck Press, a small chapbook entitled Chicken Wings & Bad Decisions due on Moran Press in 2019, a full-length split book with my friend and road partner Victor Adam Clevenger, a book with my friend from England, the great Bobby Parker, and am finishing work on my New & Selected Poems.

This interview was first published in The Odd Magazine.

Bruno Sourdin: Anything can happen

Photo credit: Yvon Kervinio

Bruno Sourdin is a French poet and collagist. He was born in 1950 in the Mont-Saint-Michel area. After studying journalism in Paris, he travelled in Morocco, Egypt, and India. He now lives in Normandy. His first collection of poems, Les Haillons d’Ecume, was published in 1977. His more recent titles include Hazel (2005), L’air de la route (2013), Vers les fjords de l’ouest (2015) and Chiures de mouches au plafond (2016). His blog, titled Syncopes, contains interviews, commentaries, poetry, and art. His poems have also been published in the South African poetry journal New Coin.

DH: You were born in 1950, so I am curious about what it was like being a young man in the late 1960s and early 1970s. It was the end of the idealism of the 1960s and the beginning of something new in the 1970s, though maybe people did not yet know what the 1970s would be like.

BS: We cannot refer to this period without mentioning the impact of the May Revolution of 1968 in France and how liberating it was for a whole generation I grew up with. I was barely 18 years old. It was both a rejection of the consumer society, a protest against knowledge, a revolutionary moment of illusion and a much-needed change of life.

I can remember in those days the academic poets spoke like mandarins. We were on the brink of asphyxia. It was a pitiful old film, pathetic and especially very annoying. Poetry had lost its luminous glow. We lived those May 1968 events as emancipation — many slogans which seemed to come straight from a surrealist poetry book could be seen anywhere: “Under cobblestones is the beach”, “It is forbidden to forbid”, “Run away my friend, this old world is behind you”…

You made your first collage in 1970 and your first book of poems, Les Haillons d’Ecume, was published in 1977. How did you start making collages and writing poetry? Why collage?

I wrote my first poem in 1970, with wind in my hair, in an unpredictable state of joy, between Burgos and Granada. Tangier and Marrakech were still far away. My first writing experience is utterly connected to the road. Intimately.

That same year, I made my first collage; a way to offer another reality. It just happened at the same time, as a necessity. I go from one to the other, randomly, according to my heart. Cut-and-paste words or images, no matter. Anything can happen.

A butterfly's dream

The US Beat poets seem to have had a big influence on your thinking and poetry. When did you start reading the Beats and why?

When I was 18, I was really moved when reading the poets of the Beat Generation. Allen Ginsberg, Jack Kerouac, Gregory Corso, Gary Snyder, Michael McClure … And I believe my sensitivity has been deeply affected. A big book that brought together texts written by William Burroughs, Bob Kaufman. Claude Pélieu, their translator and the only French poet who was part of this extraordinary tribe, especially amazed me.

Claude Pélieu, who was exiled to the United States, blew up the classical language. His poetry was delightfully burning and chaotic. With him, the old disincarnate academic writing was over. With him, you could finally breathe. Like the generation of surrealists had formerly done.

The magic flute

What artists have influenced you?

Max Ernst, who used to experiment with techniques that helped him to “force inspiration”. His collages, collected in albums, are true masterpieces. Generally, I like the collages of surrealist artists: Max Bucaille, Jindrich Styrsky, Jacques Prévert … But I also particularly admire Erro’s work – a leading figure of the Narrative Movement and a creator of collages (which often serve as blueprints for his paintings).

A rose for Japanese people

Did you do a lot of travelling during the late 1960s and early 1970s? Two of the poems in your first collection, which are dated 1970, were written in Amsterdam and Marrakech.

It was the call of the road. Many American hippies had taken refuge in Europe to flee the Vietnam War. I met many of those beautiful people from Marrakech to Amsterdam … It was a time of freedom and optimism. People believed in the goodness of human beings, exchanged ideas, dreams and utopias. But all this has now completely disappeared and is not going to happen again soon.

You have also participated in the Mail Art scene – how did you get involved in that?

I got particularly interested in Mail Art around the 90s. Roger Avau (aka Metallic Avau), a famous mail artist from Bruxelles (Belgium), initiated me into his trade. I took part in many worldwide exhibitions and also got the opportunity to set up two: “The street is a dream” in 1993 and “Janis Joplin”, six years later.

I believe Mail Art is the best way to keep your creative mind alert. Besides, I collaborate in several assembling zines – which are compilations of various artists’ work, with a specific theme or not. I built an international network of friendship and exchange over time, which still exists today via Facebook. It is obviously a different approach (tactile versus digital form) but not necessarily opposite: to me, the Mail Art network was a kind of pioneer of the new social networks.

You published a book of poems about India called Hazel. When did you visit India? What did you think of it?

I see India as an inexhaustible source of inspiration. Hermann Hesse used to say that the Orient was “the fatherland and the youth of the soul.” That is also my opinion. I travelled to the Indies in the 1980s. I am fascinated by the philosophy and the work of Sri Aurobindo.

From this trip, I brought back a journey log that I called “Pondicherry, the witness and the wheel”. It is a kind of inner reporting. In India, the atmosphere is very different from the one in the Occident. It is an exceptional experience.

Later, I met the Calcutta-based poet Pradip Choudhuri, my “eternal brother”, who was part of the Hungry Generation. I love his crazy inspiration and the terrible wind he blows in his poetry.

What music do you like best and who are your favourite musicians and bands?

In the summer of 1965, the year of my 15th birthday, I made a trip to England and fell madly in love with the Beatles’ rock music. It was totally new and brilliant. With Bob Dylan, the magic became clearer. Albums such as Highway 61 Revisited and Blonde on Blonde made me vibrate with their poetic intensity. And still. The list of these wonderful rock poets is endless: Pete Townsend, Robert Wyatt, Jim Morrison, Lou Reed, Patti Smith …

On another side, I also have a passion for US minimalist music. Terry Riley, Steve Reich, La Monte Young and Philip Glass have opened new musical spaces where I like to walk.

You have been friends with some wonderful, fascinating poets and artists who have since passed on. I am thinking about poet and collagist Claude Pélieu, about whom you published a book, poet Alain Jégou and artist Pascal Ulrich. What are your memories of them

I started writing to Claude Pélieu in 1991. He lived in New York State and he made a newspaper-collage of the universe. I was enthralled. In 1993 he moved to Caen (Normandy) with his American wife Mary Beach, not far from my home, and we became friends. We used to meet each other frequently. It lasted a year and it was a wonderful memory for me, but the experience ended in a crushing failure for them. As a result, they went back to New York, and Claude and I started our intense correspondence again.

He died on December 24, 2002, in a hospital bed. He was very ill and they had to amputate one of his legs. Just like Rimbaud. It was awful.

I knew Alain Jégou very well and he also was a close friend of Claude Pélieu. He was a fisherman in Brittany. I loved his fury of living, his fraternal gaze and the voluptuousness of his writing. He wrote a tremendous book about the sea and his sailing experiences called Ikaria, the name of his boat. As for Pascal Ulrich, he would work in an emergency, under the impulse of the moment. He wrote thousands of letters illustrated with his own drawings for his friends. I think he was nostalgic for a lost paradise. Loneliness, illness, and despair finally took him away. It was terribly painful and it made us cry a lot.

You recently published a collection of haiku called Chiures de mouches au plafond. What attracted you to the haiku form? Do you find it challenging?

I first heard about haiku 40 years ago, whilst reading The Dharma Bums by Jack Kerouac. This form of poetry instantly captivated me since it was simple and true, concise and puzzling, without artifice nor sophistication. I appropriated this style and wrote my own haikus in French with no specific ties and tried my best to express myself on complete impulse.

Is it difficult for poets to be published in France these days?

Yes and no. Nowadays, the space assigned to the poetry in the literary milieu has substantially decreased. But paradoxically, this type of writing has never been more inventive, creative. And that is precisely what many small publishers are looking for: authors able to think outside the box.

What projects are you busy with at the moment?

As always, I trust in life. I am receptive, I am attentive. I breathe in and out deeply. I move. Freely.

Interview translated into English by Fidélise A, Sourdin. First published in The Odd Magazine and then Empty Mirror. The original French interview appears on Bruno's blog, Syncopes.